


horizon chaser

by sunsongs



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, Non-Graphic Violence, Organized Crime, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues, Tanabata, set post act 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsongs/pseuds/sunsongs
Summary: Furuichi Sakyo finds a home.On the way home, you’ll twine your fingers together with Izumi’s. The sun’ll be going down. Shadows stretching across the pavement, stars about to make their evening rounds. Light everywhere: mapping its way across the myriad streets, creeping across the kitchen floor, slipping into your laughter.
Relationships: Furuichi Sakyou & Izumida Azami, Furuichi Sakyou & MANKAI Company, Furuichi Sakyou & Sakoda Ken, Furuichi Sakyou/Tachibana Izumi
Comments: 21
Kudos: 62





	horizon chaser

**Author's Note:**

> Big shout out to [lunita_solita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunita_solita) and [ChetRoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChetRoi) for beta reading! This is for you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Memory tastes like static simmering on your tongue.

All sugar in your mouth, sweat sliding down your back. The haze of summer heat, dreamlike. Her voice, rising above a thousand cicadas’ summer quartets.

You recall the warmth of her hand so vividly: a patch of sunlight, lighting up the rundown backstreets of your wasted youth. Like the blinding blaze of fireworks at Tanabata: there and gone. How could you not? 

(You know the tale of the Tanabata, spun from skillful fingers: a reunion of star-crossed lovers and a flock of magpies, moved by a princess’s tears. Their feathers, bridging the relentless rapids once each year -- but only if the sky is clear. Izumi was no weaving princess, that’s for sure -- but you never thought you’d find her here.)

It wasn’t love, then. Some deity must’ve cranked up the humidity up to eleven, that summer day. Five steps out in the summer sun and you were melting. But… hearing her laugh at such a simple thing — a paper fortune, carefully cradled in her palms — made you wonder _._

_If she can find happiness in something so simple, then so can I. In the breath of autumn, in a ginkgo’s golden fan-shaped leaves. How Mom laughed at the face I made, the first time I caught a whiff of their stench — stress slipping from her shoulders like rain. So — I don’t have to be a stranger to happiness anymore. Maybe someday, it’ll say hello to me._

It’s why you don’t make a habit of forgetting those you hold dear. (You couldn’t afford to. Most days, you watched schoolyard squabbles from afar, knowing you’d never play a part.)

Sometimes, memories were all you had left — even if their flavor had become more bitter than sweet. Exhibit A: Yukio-san’s voice, already fading. _Look after Izumi, for me?_

You have spent eight years bearing Mankai’s burden, but you can’t imagine how heavy its legacy weighs on its manager’s back. 

Sure, headaches were a daily affair. Matsukawa’s incompetence made your blood pressure skyrocket to astounding highs, but you had to applaud the tenacity of a man thrust into a world unknown to him. Without any prior knowledge of managing a theater troupe, Matsukawa grasped at every opportunity to keep Yukio-san’s dream alive. 

_How many calls from your daughter went unanswered, longing just to hear her father’s voice? How many birthdays has your daughter spent, bereft of a father? And what of your wife?_

(You should’ve known. Your so-called idols — your momentary gods, placed precariously high on paper pedestals — were never immune to gravity. Don’t worship someone if you’re in the dark. Put them up to the light. See what seethes beneath their skin, and then you’ll know.)

Matsukawa, who held Yukio-san in such high regard, desperately tried to convince himself there was a reason for his departure. There _had_ to be a reason the man he idolized left him behind. Izumi, who set her heart on following in his footsteps, longed to bring that long-held dream of hers to life. You, who were dazzled by Mankai’s brilliance, had been drawn in like a moth to flame. 

_Where were you when your dream was seconds away from being destroyed? Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse — I don’t want to hear it. It won’t make up for the years we’ve all sacrificed, the sobs I’ve heard Izumi muffle into her pillow after you performed your little disappearing act._

Without Matsukawa’s unrelenting efforts, Sakuma’s trailblazing persistence, Izumi’s go-getter attitude and guidance, Yuzo’s acerbic yet astute critiques, and your money management… Mankai would’ve been brought to its knees long ago. 

_You abandoned us, and Mankai fell apart._

/ /

How many of your dreams have you crushed under the soles of your shoes? More than you’d bother counting. But this — this paltry dream of creaking floorboards, of sweeping, grandiose gestures crafted with care — was shaped by the hands of a man you once called your idol. You can’t bear to let it go.

_Your daughter’s grown up well, Yukio-san. Grown strong enough to stand up on her own two feet without leaning on you anymore. You should’ve been there to see it. Who knew that little girl who so foolishly put her faith in paper fortunes would carve out a path of her own?_

Watching the spill of light and laughter of the theater from afar, you dared to hope. One day, someday — you prayed your paths would cross again.

All these years, and you still can’t forget the warmth of her hand. How it felt in yours: like it belonged there. Like it was there to stay. The sappy smile she made, saying she wanted to hold your hand. The gleeful grin when she refused to let go. The sight flooded you with a warmth you hadn’t felt for a good while. 

What a pair the two of you make: two stubborn fools, holding on. You’ll micromanage the meager funds available down to the decimal, rehearse for hours on end to keep that dream alive. Shake your head, exasperated, as a half-awake Minagi commiserates to an unsympathetic Rurikawa.

Minagi looks like he’s pulled four consecutive all-nighters and lived to tell the tale. Always pushing himself to the limits, that man. You’ll let Fushimi know, seeing as Minagi looks sixty miles away from coherence -- _we’re running out of coffee beans. You can thank our resident workaholics for that._

You’ll sigh when you get roped into Sakisaka’s little band of shoujo manga enthusiasts, caught in the act _. It’s for research,_ you’ll insist. Your complaints fall on deaf ears. _Not because I like it._ Miyoshi will give you a knowing smile. Sakisaka will stare at you with sparkling eyes. Ah, good grief… it’d leave a bad taste, turning down those puppy eyes. 

(Research, huh. Sure, it’s good to expand your repertoire for the sake of acting. You can make all the excuses you want, but there’s no fooling yourself. You can’t help but be a little curious about a standard, storybook love. It’s a little pathetic, but sometimes you crave it. Every time Izumi discusses the merits of cardamom and coriander in curry roux, she looks like she’s caught a glimpse of heaven. You find yourself thinking: _If only she could look at me the same way._

 _Ah, shit._ That’s when you realized: _I’m head over heels with Izumi Tachibana, and my top contender’s her favorite dish._

Usui’s another matter entirely — he’s just a lonely kid who latched onto a beacon in the night, wanting someone to welcome him home. Mistaking it for a crush, and chasing it with all he’s got — not wanting to be left behind. Praying: don’t leave me again. Not when I’ve finally found someone to call family. 

And, hey…you’ve got a soft spot for kids like him, who always come back to an empty apartment. Kids who have to listen, blank-faced and resigned, to the ringing of a dial tone. You know the feeling all too well, even if you knew your mother would answer — you just didn’t want to bother her in the middle of her shift. 

(So if you watch his performance a little more closely at rehearsal and offer him some critiques, well. That’s no one’s business but yours. You’d do it for any other member, if they asked. That’s all.)

There hadn’t been much room for flippance in your life, so you’ll allow yourself these little indulgences. The satisfying pop of bubble wrap beneath your fingers, the cheesiness dripping from the pages of some trite romance novel to pass the time.

Ah, but it was worth seeing your mother breathe easier. For all the trouble you’d caused her… it was the least you could do, to pay her back.

/ /

You didn’t have the luxury of a carefree childhood.

As a child, you made a habit of keeping a distance from your classmates. It was mutual, you reasoned, unwilling to be the first one to admit: _I… want to play with you, too._ You were old enough to understand the old adage: the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. 

You were old enough to become accustomed to opening a glossy box of cookies, only to find needles and thread. Adding water to the last dregs of dish soap to make them last. Watching all your classmates go on school trips and being left behind. _Ah… how fun it must be. What’s it like, winning the lottery of life?_

But… looking back at the homemade pack of cards your mother had made for you with so much care, you realized her smile was worth more than anything -- even if it didn’t quite ease that ache. Recall: mother’s voice, strained from hours of work, calling out in the night. The warmth of her embrace.

One day, you thought. Someday, I’ll pay back your kindness with my own two hands.

You saw the expression on bon’s face, when the chairman tossed out his cards. Strange thing was, you saw yours looking back. Good grief… looking at a sorry face like that, all you could think of was your misspent youth. You’d caged your anger so long, it so easily sprang into your voice: sharp-tongued words, itching for a fight. Crackling beneath your skin, craving for release.

You owed the chairman, sure. Couldn’t forget that one rainy night, where the Ginsenkai’s chairman reached out to your limping frame. Dragged you up by the collar, smiling all the while, and extended his hand. (You weren’t looking for charity, but a place to earn your keep. All you wanted was a place to belong.) You took it, and didn’t let go.

It was how you came to know Azami Izumida. “A babysitting job,” you told your mother, and she looked only half convinced. But bon’s worth far more than your paycheck by the hour, isn’t he? So when the chairman wanted bon to give up his dream, you stepped in. You couldn’t let the kid’s dream be trampled over, just like that. 

You told bon to hold his head high, instead. _Don’t forsake your dream for anyone else’s sake. It’s_ your _dream._ Your _life, y’hear? So seize it with both hands, brat, and chase it with all you’ve got. I’ll back you up, this time. Don’t you dare half-ass a thing like this, or I’ll have your hide._

(Brat slipped up once, in the aftermath of being kidnapped. Exhaustion slurring his words, he called you dad. You couldn’t bring yourself to correct him. There wasn’t anyone around to hear. And — fine, you’ll admit it. You were so relieved, you didn’t mind if he called you shitty four eyes when he woke up — not if it meant you could ruffle his hair one more time, and call him the same names back.)

Seems like you’ve gotten a bad habit of picking up strays. Saw the kindness shown to you, turning you away from a one-way street to self-destruction, and wanted to pay it back. 

Sakoda’s grown, hasn’t he? From shadowing your heels like an oversized puppy to standing up to the chairman: straight-backed, though his hands were shaking. All for bon’s sake.

(He reminds you of your little sister, sometimes. Miyako’s all wide-eyed enthusiasm, that girl. The day she asked you if the clouds were made of cotton candy, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Asked if you’d fly her there, Sakyo-nii, and we can bring home a falling star to light up the streets. So Mom won’t be lonely on the way home, yeah? 

As a kid, she thought her big brother could do anything. She and Sakoda could’ve started a fanclub, or something. You shudder at the thought.

Look at her now, all grown up. You used to think there wasn’t a place for you in that family of theirs: your mother, your step-father, and Miyako all in the apartment you found for them. You’d done your duty, fulfilled your filial obligation. No room for you in the equation. 

All you could bring to their doorstep was trouble. The streets you roam have no shortage of it: gunshots in the night over territorial disputes, the muttered words of a foul-mouthed brat. 

Then Mother had shattered your expectations, that one rainy day. _Fretting must run in the family, huh?_ You sighed. _Worrying about my health like that… Saying I’ve done more than enough… The least I can do is leave my shoes at your door more often. Enough to call it home._

It wasn’t too hard to spill the details to a kid like Hyodo, who reminded you of yourself. Seeing him embrace his feelings for acting meant there was hope for washed-up old men like you, after all. 

Fushimi was all raised eyebrows after your latest weekend call with Miyako, where both your evenings were open. Said he rarely saw that weight lifted from your shoulders. That you looked lighter, somehow. 

Yukishiro smiled, voice fond, and said it suited you well. Izumi had looked startled for a moment. Her face brightened as she beamed. _I wouldn’t mind seeing that kind of expression from you more often, Sakyo-san._

At the sound of summer in her voice, your heart did a pitiful little tap dance in your chest. A blaze of light, unashamed. You turned away, not wanting her to see the red setting your face aflame.)

Much like a certain Director, Sakoda is a man who has never seen shame in his life. It will pass him on the bustling streets as he struts his way to the local conbini, all boast and bluster, and he will not give it a second glance. 

Every time you entrusted him with an errand, you feared he’d forget an important package in a random alleyway, or rev the engines of a sleek black Ginsenkai-loaned car right into some unsuspecting tree.

Now, though…you’ve sown the seeds in untamed earth, teaching him the foundations. _Oi, listen up. Here’s how you disappear into a crowd with someone on your tail, Sakoda._

_Good grief… That how ya throw a punch? What, you want to break a thumb? Watch closely. I’ll show you how it’s done, so don’t come cryin’ to me if you -- wait. Do that again. Adjust your stance a little -- better._

It was up to him to coax a harvest from untilled soil, heedless of the merciless sun beating down on his back. _Not bad, for your first try. Doesn’t mean you can take things easy, now. You’ve still got a thousand years to go before you can go toe to toe with me._

He’s come a long way. Though he might wear his every emotion with pride, emblazoning them on his sleeves for all to see, he makes disappearing into a crowd look easy. God knows how he can blend in with that obnoxiously purple leopard print of his, but he makes it work. 

_I learned from the best, aniki!_ The first time he passed your little test, he puffed up with pride. Sent you a cheeky grin, eyes aglow with guileless glee. 

_Flatterer._ You rolled your eyes. Just this once, you thought. You let that feeling of fondness well up in you like a tidal wave, a sea breeze whispering across your skin. _Aah, fine. Not bad at all, Sakoda. Keep it up._

Nowadays, he’ll buy you a coffee milk while he’s running errands, just because -- and who are you to reject it? You’ll thank him. For a second, you can imagine puppy ears perking up from his bleached blond hair. So eager for praise, this kid… 

He’s decent at gathering intel, now; he can operate construction machinery with ease. He’ll carry equipment and deliver documents to the Director without complaint, supporting Mankai from behind the scenes. As for driving… he’s had his fair share of close calls, but he has yet to cause a major scene.

Even so, you’ll throw Sakoda into a headlock for breaking your new manga’s plastic before you get a chance. Shake your head at his spunk. Seems like he’s getting cheekier by the day -- guess you’re starting to rub off on him. 

You’ll sigh at his embarrassing professions of loyalty, shouted for half of Mankai to hear. Sakoda believes in you more than you ever will, though, so teaching him kanji’s the least you can do. 

You don’t want a repeat of six years ago, where Sakoda somehow got hopelessly lost in his own hometown -- stranded thirty minutes away from his destination. Rain was coming down with a vengeance, and you felt a migraine start to throb at your temples. You grumbled to the moon and back through the phone, but you were already picking up your keys. 

_Couldn’t make out some of the street signs, Boss_ , he mumbled in the aftermath, staring at his rain-soaked shoes.

An expression like that didn’t suit him. Once he finished filling out the kanji practice book you’d given him, you checked it over. Looked back at Sakoda, staring back with shining eyes. Closed yours: half-exasperated, half-fond. You resigned yourself to being a soft-hearted old man that day, and sighed. _Here_. You indulged him with a gold star sticker for his efforts, and the grin he gave you lit up the room.

You don’t know where Sakoda gets that fathomless faith in you from, but… seeing him believe wholeheartedly in your abilities helps you breathe just a little easier before a performance. Aah, fine. You’ll never say it to his face, but… you can’t say you’ll ever regret taking him in. 

(... Most of the time, at least. The next time he blubbers all over your lapels post-performance, you might have to reconsider.)

Is this what your father felt like, watching you take your first steps on your own? How warm. This feeling spreading through your veins, right down to the marrow… is pride, you realize.

It’s seeing Azami flourish onstage. With one brushstroke, he transforms his fellow actors into beasts of the night. _Your mother must be smiling from above, bon. I’m sure of it._

It’s resisting the urge to ruffle Sakuma’s hair. Kid's grown in more ways than one, from the first time he stood on that stage. 

It’s musing with Sumeragi on how far his troupe’s come, and commiserating on how getting your respective troupes to cooperate’s like herding cats. You loan him some of your bonsai magazines, seeing as he’s one of the few kids here who’s appreciative of an “old man hobby.” 

It’s seeing Sakisaka starting to step into his roles as if they were tailor-made for him, wearing his shaky, newfound confidence like a crown. 

It’s watching Izumi bringing out the best in Mankai’s actors, seeing raw, unpolished potential -- latent seeds in fertile earth -- and coaxing them to bloom.

It’s why you’ll play the part of the devil, if that’s what it takes -- demanding what’s due with a spine-chilling scowl. There’s no take backs in a live performance. Every moment is fleeting. A play is kept alive by its actors, and that sense of immersion can so easily be shattered with a stuttered line. 

You don’t want anyone to grit their teeth, regretting they hadn’t done enough at rehearsal. The best safeguard you can provide is knowing you’ve practiced your lines enough to recite them in your sleep, having done all you can. The butterflies in your stomach settling under the stage lights, the electric thrill of falling into your role. It makes all those hours of practice worth it, in the end. 

A little dissatisfaction is natural. There will always be something you could’ve done just a little better -- a flubbed line you had to salvage through ad libbing, or the way you focused so much on blocking, you missed your cue -- but critiquing yourself is the key to improvement, isn’t it? 

You always made sure Sakisaka didn’t go overboard. He had a tendency to spiral into a storm of self-doubt. You advised him to come up with one thing he nailed for each flaw he found. _I don’t say this often, but… Sakisaka. Go a little easier on yourself, alright?_

_/ /_

Obon has arrived with little ceremony, aside from the constant chorus of cicadas and summer’s insufferable extremes. You take a train to Kyoto. Drink in the sight of your father’s birthplace, resplendent in summer’s verdant robes. 

You leave these stories at your father’s grave with a bouquet of bellflowers, blooming bright. Tsukioka helped you with their selection, meticulously picking out the brightest blues. 

(You know that not all exchanges have to be transactional, but you don’t like leaving your debts unpaid. You _are_ a debt collector, after all. Next time you, Izumi, Tsukioka, Fushimi, Yukishiro and whoever else Arisugawa manages to drag along drop by some hole-in-the-wall izakaya, you’ll pay for his drink. You’re not taking no for an answer.)

Conveying your sentiments through flowers, huh? Gratitude’s the song the bellflowers are singing, lyrics to the tune of unchanging love. _Thank you_. If speaking in the tongues of tulips could reach your father, at least there’d be little to misunderstand. 

You find yourself smiling as you clear cobwebs from his name, running cold water over solemn stone. You bow your head in prayer. You want him to know about the way Hyodo smiled at the sound of mochi ice cream on sale. _Aw, hell, I thought to myself, how could I resist a smile like that?_

_I swear, some days I can see the resemblance. Kumon, Muku, Juza… they’ve all got that same smile. Ain’t as easy to come by, with Juza, but when you see it… s’like the sun breaking through the clouds._

_Speaking of the sun, well… I finally found the light of someone I’ve been chasing for so long. I always thought paper fortunes were foolish, but when our paths crossed again… when I saw the way sunlight framed her face and lit up her eyes… I thought I could put my faith in fate, if only for a while._

At the end of it all, you light a stick of incense. Offer your thanks. The scent lingers in the air, heavy with heat. Leave ginkgo skewers as an offering. It’s a popular izakaya snack — your father’s favorite. Having that in common with the man who gave you your name… isn’t something you mind. No… not one bit.

The thought of it’s bittersweet, but it makes you strangely happy. 

Your father must’ve known he’d never see you walk the stage at graduation, never ink another paper wish on tanzaku at Tanabata. He’d never again hold your hand as you roamed from stall to stall, guiding you through the dark: lit-lantern crimsons illuminating the steadily darkening streets.

(Years later, you will float one such lantern down the river, hoping your father’s spirit will be watching. You don’t believe in fairytales, but… there’s no harm in hope, is there? You pray it will guide him home. 

When you close your eyes, you dream of a world where you’re happy. Where he ruffles your hair one more time, and tells you everything’s okay, Sakyo-kun. You did well.)

You’re no fool. You saw the expenses piling up, cracks spreading through the facade your mother tried to keep up. Always smiling for your sake, to hide the strain: fraying at the edges from the financial burden. 

You’ve delivered packages you’d rather not know the contents of, extorted money from businesses on the brink of bankruptcy. Collected protection money with a scathing scowl. Become a formidable figure along those streets, infected with shadows. Stayed so long in the dark, steeped in sin, that you’ve become one yourself.

_Your son’s become a losing hand in a game of cards. I can’t even look you in the eye without feeling ashamed. I don’t deserve your kindness. So why…?_

You never thought a sinner like you could dream of redemption. If the floodlights hadn’t snapped on for your first production, bringing you out of your daze, you wouldn’t have believed you were standing on that stage. You used to think you didn’t belong among magicians, who could bring the audience to tears in the span of a single act-- never mind the leading role. 

So every time the curtains fall, you hope you’ve become suited to your name. You want to be worthy of the faith your father had in you that one summer’s day, a calloused hand ruffling your hair. 

(It feels like penance. Like a prayer to a hungry god you’ve never believed in, reverence to empty altars. All you want… all you’ve ever wanted is to be forgiven. By someone, anyone. Thing is: you can’t even forgive yourself.) 

Now, the wind’s winding its merry way through the trees, dappled sunlight dancing across their leaves. Someone’s running water into a wooden bucket, readying themselves to clean a family grave. You see a kid making teru teru bōzu for Tanabata across the street, believing their crookedly drawn smiles will pray the clouds away. A balmy breeze sends fūrin singing, swaying. Drunk on midsummer sun, drinking down every drop like cheap wine.

Listen. Your father’s voice, a whisper: _Look, Sakyo-kun. They’re dancing. Dancing for you._ You close your eyes. 

Even now, you can still hear the echo of his laughter.

/ / 

You don’t even need a wedding, at this rate. 

You drag a weary hand down your face. Light’s streaming through the curtains like liquid gold, falling in bars against the dusty floor. You feel like a caged animal, clawing for release. Can’t believe you’re thirty, and you’re already a skip and a hop away from a mid-life crisis. 

Both you and Izumi are already married to your jobs, after all. You have six spreadsheets’ worth of accounting work waiting on your desk. She still has yet to rework blocking for several different scenes. Coffee dates are the last thing on either of your minds. Worse, your relationship with Izumi could make or break Mankai if it came apart at the seams. 

Really, though. At this point… you’re just making excuses. Looking at Izumi walking so bravely onward made you realize: _I can’t be content with complacency. Look at you, taking such great strides. I’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up._

Ah, but if you could bask in that light of hers for just a little longer… it’d be enough. It _should_ be enough, but… you’re greedy, huh. Seeking out affection like a hunting hound, never content for merely a whiff of its quarry.

You’ve seen how she’s fallen asleep at her desk so many times, surrounded by stacks of rehearsal notes. _Itaru needs to enunciate more clearly here, but he’s nailed the emotion Tsuzuru was going for in the script. Note to self: ask Omi to fix up something special for Tsuzuru later as thanks. Whipped coffee, maybe? Geez… final exams are just around the corner, and he still manages to throw together a quality script._

Sure, you’d rolled your eyes. Sighed a little, shook your head. But in the end, you always wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to stave off the cold — if there was one in the room. If not, you lent her your jacket to keep her warm.

_Oi. We’re countin’ on you, Director. Can’t have you getting sick now — not when we have another production in the works. It’d be… a hassle, that’s all. Take care of yourself. You’re our company’s most valuable asset, y’know?_

(You’d only known from the desk lamp she’d left burning, the door left so carelessly ajar. _Don’t give me that look, Director. I have every reason to worry._ )

Izumi’s acting leaves much to be desired, but you can’t stop looking at the way her eyes light up with every word -- all aglow with childish delight. Pure, undiluted joy. Feels like spring sunlight, sinking into your skin after months of sunless skies. 

You have to applaud her audacity: plowing through her lines with all the grace of a bulldozer, or perhaps an elephant attempting ballet. Still, there’s potential in that steadfast bravery. Izumi may not have the foundations of Settsu’s prodigal talent, but she’s good at showcasing her character’s expressions — a stark contrast to Tsukioka’s subtlety. … Though most times she takes it too far — to the point where a period drama can transform into a manzai act.

It’s breathtaking, how real they appear: mouth pressed a thin line, words spat out with simmering anger. Sentences, painstakingly stitched together with heartfelt anguish and watery eyes. Izumi never does anything by halves, does she? 

You don’t believe in hopeless cases. With Izumi’s work ethic and Yuzo’s coaching, well… who’s to say that a daikon can’t bloom into a brilliant flower?

/ / 

Here at Mankai, there’s no shortage of noise. 

Hyodo and Settsu snap at the slightest provocation. Seven in the morning, and they’re already at each other’s throats. Takato gives the general chaos a raised eyebrow and a wave as he heads out for his morning jog. 

Ikaruga sings something about triangles, practically skipping into the kitchen. He forms his namesake shape with his hands. Miyoshi grins, following suit with a skip in his step. He slings an arm over Ikaruga’s shoulder. _Click_ , Miyoshi’s phone camera chirps, capturing the moment forever.

In contrast, Minagi’s sighing over the sound of the coffeemaker. He’s half-slumped over the counter, too exhausted to play mediator. Tsukioka already knows the steps to this old song and dance. He skirts around Minagi to fix two mugs with a smile, all to the tune of Minagi’s slurred thanks. Eight o’clock, and there’s a cacophony of footsteps, the troupe’s younger members clattering out the door. 

Memory might taste like static on your tongue, like the bottle of Ramune you downed just to chase those long gone days — but Izumi’s always in motion, every time you try to catch her eye. Set your home around the epicenter of chaos long enough, and you’ll learn to ride out the storm. 

She’s always charging forward, always taking things in stride. If she ever stumbles, there’s no shortage of troupe members willing to catch her mid-fall. You’d never admit it, but you’d be one of the first to come running if she ever gave the call. 

(Let’s not lie to yourself. If there was an award for the emotionally repressed, you’d probably take the prize.) 

Evening’s falling around the Mankai dorms like a velvet curtain, muffling all sound like a fresh blanket of snow. In the distance, you can hear Sumeragi and Rurikawa bickering about everything and nothing. Flowery verse echoes through the halls, courtesy of Arisugawa; Mikage’s half-listening, half-napping, judging by his muffled complaints between marshmallows. 

There’s the dull thud, thud, thud of a knife against the cutting board, the lilt of Yukishiro’s laughter from the kitchen. Fushimi must be cooking. Mankai’s residents can breathe easy tonight, without the threat of curry looming over their heads.

Izumi’s falling asleep on your shoulder, despite all her protests of being bright-eyed and awake. You’re too distracted by her warmth to focus on the film flickering on the TV screen, strands of her hair tickling your neck. Her steady weight anchors your drifting thoughts. You’d been thinking about a sale on a cosmetics set. Yukishiro had sung the brand’s praises, so you figured it’d make a good gift for bon’s birthday. 

Air conditioning’s a godsend compared to summer’s simmering heat, but Izumi’s shivering a little in her sleep. You shift a little, trying to reach the blanket on the other side of the couch. It smells faintly of sugar -- Mikage must’ve been napping here earlier, curled up like one of Sakuma’s stray cats. You freeze when you hear Izumi murmur, “Don’t go…” 

“Oi… You’re a real idiot sometimes, y’know that?” You murmur, only loud enough for her to hear. It’s not like there’s anyone around, so there’s no harm in allowing yourself one selfish act. 

(After all… there’s only one person you’ve been chasing, all these years. When silence greets you instead of the dorms’ constant noise, an old fear makes its home in your veins. You steady yourself by reaching out -- a hand on her shoulder, a reassurance for both of you. Only if she’s okay with it, though. 

You can’t bear the thought of losing her, not again — so you’ll listen if she’s waxing poetic about cumin. You’ll even take her rambles about turmeric, as long as it’s proof: she’s really here.)

Izumi is fast asleep. You’re sixty kilometers from drowsiness, with distance to spare. “Listen up. You know me — I’m not fond of repeating myself.”

You let out a rueful laugh, brittle as broken glass. You’ve anticipated the threat of a socked jaw or dislocated shoulder more times than you can count, straining under the pressure as the lead actor in a play — but you can’t even bring yourself to say the words.

You can set a bone, easy; you’ve warded off the threat of infection on bon’s schoolyard scrapes with peroxide every time. Cheesy as it may sound, well. There’s no medicine that can mend a broken heart.

“It’s not like I’ve been lookin’ for you, all these years. But… Every time I passed that rundown theater, I thought of your name in the lights. I remembered the dream I discarded, all those years ago.”

Your face is burning. Damn it, this is so…if bon ever saw you like this, he’d never let you live it down. Izumi’s soft snores have quieted into little puffs of breath against your neck. A smile spreads across her lips, lovelier than any flower. Must be a good dream.

“First time I saw you… did you know? For one fleeting moment, I remembered the paper fortunes we pulled all those years ago, and thought I could put a little faith in fate.”

You were never good at letting go. You’ve gotten so good at holding onto hopeless cases, having been one yourself. Sure, it’s a fragile dream, but you’ve cradled it in your hands all this time. It’s brittle. Real easy to break. But it’s beautiful, and one of the few things you can truly call your own. It’s why you’ll allow yourself this little dream of loving, and being loved.

“Now that I’ve finally found you, how can I let you go?” 

There’s a hand cupping your cheek, a feather-light touch. Izumi’s. Like she’s afraid you’ll fly away. Take off running at the first sign of emotional intimacy. You should feel insulted, but really… she’s not far off the mark. 

Eyes half-lidded, she lets out a little laugh. Her hair’s sticking up a little from her impromptu nap. The sparse lighting’s turning those eyes amber, limning her hair in gold. _Aw, hell._ You think. _Cutest thing I’ve ever seen._

Izumi’s fearlessness triples when she’s half asleep. Her drowsy words are quiet, waltzing their way to your ear. The distance isn’t far, not when she’s using you as her personal pillow. They land like a right hook to the jaw.

“Of all the times to tell me, Sakyo-san. Geez… I’ll have you know, I heard it all.”

All trains of thought shudder to a halt. The station is closing. The conductor has no more idea of their destination than their passengers. 

You briefly consider flinging yourself out the window, or maybe the sun. Anywhere but here.

“... And here I thought _I_ was the actor.” You’re panicking, so all that comes out of your mouth is an automated response: falling back, seeking refuge in the familiar. All sharp-tongued humor, mirth warming your voice. 

She hums, contemplative. In her voice lingers the last moments of a dream, edges blurred by fading remnants of sleep. You’ve never felt so awake.

“Fate, huh? It must be reassuring, to have something to believe in. But, you know… I put my faith in what human hands can do.” Izumi begins, chin resting in her palm.

You understand that sentiment all too well. Divine intervention never swept that tired look off your mother’s face. The money you received from “babysitting” wasn’t life-changing, but seeing her smile more often was proof enough.

(Izumi’s still using you as a pillow, so you take that as a good sign.)

“Yuki-kun’s store-quality costumes aren’t magic by any means. Stubborn kid. Burned his hand on the clothes iron once, but kept soldiering on. Tsuzuru-san’s scripts don’t spring from mid-air, either. If you walk past his room, or pass by the balcony at two in the morning, chances are high that you’ll hear the constant clicking of keys.” 

You always loved seeing that passion in her eyes: embers sparking in an undying fire. Mankai’s more than just a building, isn’t it? It’s filled with people who have that same stubborn flame. It’s your job to keep it burning at a blaze, to stoke the hearth when it’s flickering low. Mankai’s more than dusty floorboards and secondhand stage props, you’re starting to learn. 

You know the colorful streets that wind their way here like an old friend, but you are only beginning to know Mankai at its heart. 

Somehow, you’ve started to accept your fate as Mankai’s “Designated Cockroach Slayer,” though apparently Fushimi, Tsukioka, Takato, Utsuki, and Izumi are top contenders for the role. (Matsukawa, the coward, just shrieks at a pitch that shouldn’t be humanly possible, and flees the room.) 

Surprise, surprise. Yukishiro’s serene countenance _can_ be shattered. The man didn’t quite cower upon encountering one such “unsightly beast,” but stepped behind you all the same. Ah, well. Being relied on, for once… isn’t a bad feeling.

Fine. You have to admit… it’s nice, not coming home to an empty apartment. Being welcomed back. Really, you have to wonder… When did you start thinking of Mankai as home?

“I can’t remember the Sakyo-san from so many years ago very clearly. But… I wouldn’t mind getting to know the Sakyo-san of today. Someone who’ll read any genre, even if it isn’t to their tastes -- who’ll put _Paradise Lost_ and _Spice of Life ★ Curryholics Anonymous!_ ♡ on the same desk.”

(It’s a little embarrassing, when she puts it like that. Ah, well. You’ll excuse it by saying you’ll go whatever lengths you must to research your role.)

Hope’s a fragile thing, fluttering in your chest. Built from hollow bones and bated breath, perched on the precipice of anticipation. Damn if you aren’t afraid of the fall, but god… you’re been waiting so long for hope to spread its wings. 

“Someone who withstood the passing of all those years for this daikon of an actor.”

Her brows furrow, for a moment. Old insecurity slinking back to shadow her thoughts, dark and forlorn. Thunderclouds shrouding an overcast sky. You lean closer. Tuck a stray strand behind her ear with an exasperated sigh. 

“Oi, I won’t hear any slander about Mankai’s director. Not from you, nor anyone. We all have to start somewhere, yeah? There are actors here who started from scratch. You’ve got passion and a good work ethic, Tachibana -- enough to make so many bloom. Who’s to say that you’re any different?”

You huff. Turn away, for a moment, embarrassed by your honesty. When you turn back, a smile’s slowly spreading across her face like sunrise. Like a spring bud unfurling, singing of hope. You’re helpless to the sight. 

“I…held my breath so many nights, thinking: _Damn, this is it. Sorry, Yukio-san, but Mankai’s goin’ under — there’s no saving it from all that debt. All that can save us now is a miracle._ You dragged Mankai from the depths, y’know? All those years I spent drowning, and I could finally breathe again. So… I don’t need a miracle, Izumi — not anymore. I’ve got you.” 

“Ah, geez…! How can you say such things with such a straight face?! But, Sakyo-san… That really means a lot, coming from you.” Little does she know -- her cheeks are just as red as yours. You just… can’t bring yourself to look at her face right now. 

“But… I can’t claim all the credit for myself. It’s thanks to everyone’s hard work that we’re still here. And… I’m happy to see my dream come true for others. Maybe… one day, I’ll take the stage as another of Mankai’s actors with pride.”

You try to meet her eyes. This is a mistake.

“Y...your face is so red… That’s...” she mumbles the next word to herself, but you’re close enough to make it out, “precious…”

“.....” _Hey. Hey, just who do you think you’re talking about, here?_

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you before…. It must’ve taken a lot of you, to be direct like that. Really, would it kill you to be honest about your feelings more often?”

“... You’re lucky I’m in such a comfortable position right now.”

“W...why does that sound like a threat?!”

You stare at her for a moment, expression flat — but your lips are twitching, mirth bubbling underneath your stony facade. Izumi tries mirroring your expression, this time, instead of cowering back. …. Reminds you of a ticked off Pomeranian, maybe, but you’ve heard of Izumi’s infamous lectures. She’s not to be messed with, that’s for sure. One “I’m not mad; I’m just disappointed” look’s more devastating than any scowl. 

Izumi breaks first, laughing into your neck. Reminds you of sun-drenched skies, bright as fūrin in the wind. Glass windchimes, ringing crisp and clear as bells. Of the days you stole across the streets on your secondhand bicycle as a kid, unfettered as the breeze at your back.

You smile, fond. A chuckle spills from your traitorous lips. _I could get used to this. I wouldn’t even mind eating curry puffs three times a week._

Look at the two of you, laughing like fools. When morning comes, dawn will paint the skies like a promise. Tomorrow, you and Izumi will stop by the grocery store — but not before asking Fushimi if the stock of instant coffee is running low. You know how many call you miserly, and care even less. However, you’re not soulless enough to dismiss caffeine from the budget. 

On the way home, you’ll stop and watch Mankai’s esteemed members performing street acts. Minutes later, you’ll find them using that money to buy snacks. Hyodo would’ve looked threatening, if his cheeks weren’t stuffed like a chipmunk’s from red bean mochi. 

Ah, well. There’s no harm in it, is there? They’re gaining experience as they go, and getting their due reward. Let them have their fun. You’ve never had the luxury of a childhood, but they still have that chance. 

On the way home, you’ll twine your fingers together with Izumi’s. The sun’ll be going down. Shadows stretching across the pavement, stars about to make their evening rounds. Light everywhere: mapping its way across the myriad streets, creeping across the kitchen floor, slipping into your laughter.

Strange thing is: you don’t need to fixate on those midsummer memories to feel alive. Not anymore. 

Every time you catch sight of Izumi, you feel sixteen again: wanting to bask in the radiance from that stage, if only for a little longer. You stood there in the shadows, a fresh bruise blooming across your jaw. Your heart was aching something fierce with longing. (That, or you were concussed.) For a moment, you wondered if there would ever be a place in the spotlight for a punk like you.

But it’s different, this time. Every day, you can return to a home filled with light and laughter. 

Here, you call your resident photographers to dinner from the courtyard. They’re both too caught up in snapping shots of Tsukioka’s sunflowers to see you coming, so it’s amusing to see Miyoshi jump at the sound of your voice. Miyoshi will coerce you into being a subject of his “selfies” -- slinging an arm over your shoulder, grinning all the while. Must be his idea of vengeance. Fushimi will try to allow you some semblance of dignity by holding back laughter.

Maybe someone will steal your glasses. You’ll spend the next few hours hunting them down -- only to find out the culprit’s one of Sakuma’s stray cats. Someone will leave a can of coffee milk for you in the fridge, ever-so-eloquently labeled “FOR SHITHEAD SAKYO,” or hand you homemade onigiri, unasked. 

Every day, you can return to a place where there’s so many people willing to welcome you back.

(You’ve walked this path for what seems like forever, thinking you’ve already reached the end of the road. Nowhere left for you to go. Only now are you realizing there’s still so many routes you’ve yet to travel — so much sunkissed horizon left for you to chase.)

_Hello, Father._

And here is another story to leave at your father’s grave. It will be hard to fully describe the circus you call your home -- not without bursting into fits of breathless laughter. But you think he will appreciate the smile on his son’s face, for once, instead of the severity you wear like a second skin. 

_You can rest easy, now. I’ve finally found somewhere to belong._

/ /

Izumi sweeps into your life like a summer storm, tugging you along to dance to her breakneck tempo. Somehow, you always found yourself convinced into complying with her whims. It was second nature to soften at her grins, so easily given. As a child, your willpower crumbled in the face of her smile. 

Exposure builds immunity, you’ve tried to convince yourself. 

But somewhere in the chambers of your heart, you know: there will always be a place for her there.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> Please take care out there!


End file.
